


Awkward Meeting

by Abby_Ebon



Series: It's Not A Rabbit Hat [20]
Category: Dresden Files - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Floo Network, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WizardsGirl's prompt(s) : Harry Potter/Harry Dresden, HP/HD, Harry - Floo Meeting (if you remember "Calling Harry" this actually happens before that, is hinted to).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

There is nothing left for Harry Potter do to with his life. Voldemort is gone, the Weasley family and the remaining Order of the Phoenix have things well in hand reshaping the Ministry without him.

Nothing left to do but go home.

Harry thinks it's kind of funny, when he was a hero no one would give him peace, now – peace is all he has, too much of it. It isn't the attention he misses; it's how he felt useful, as if he had a purpose. Now, he doesn't.

He doesn't know what to do with his life, the goblins have told him he is the Heir (and used that word, too – as if there are Kings and Queens, but there are not – he'd asked) what it means is, roughly in the world, he is the richest wizard: the Potter riches, the Black fortune, and when he died Albus Dumbledore had given him all the resources of the Order of the Phoenix.

It also means he has a home he didn't know he had. He stepped into the floo, just as someone called his name. Harry himself was saying the name of his home.

"Harry – "

"- Dresden Manor."

He caught a glimpse of the whites of wide eyes, and then the floo roared up and swallowed him.

It coughed him up, and he staggered out, dizzily landing on the floor. He couldn't catch his balance, but his hand had clenched automatically onto his wand.

"Who _the hell_ are you?" It was demanded of him from the most indignant sounding man, and Harry looked to him, wand pointed without hesitation.

"Better question, _where_ am I?" Harry asked with a sneer, not at all pleased to be spoken to like that. Or at all. Floo travel just didn't agree with him over long distances, and judging by that accent, this was indeed long distance. Harry eyed the fireplace wondering at his chances of getting back to where he came from.

"Uh, my fireplace, my rules: no one has ever done that before, so how did _you_?" Judging by the blasting staff now being held (not, yet, pointed at Harry) in the man's hand, he was a wizard.

"It's called Floo, and I'm called Harry Potter." A blink, a stunned frozen face: he doesn't know how to react.

"When someone introduce themselves it's polite to do the same." As well, not stare at them as if they are insane. Harry gets to his feet, fighting his sea-sick feeling, and a headache. He feels he needs to stand, if only to be on equal footing with this man.

"Dresden." He says, hand outstretched for politeness sake, Harry shakes– and then as a wave of heat warms him, rolls over him, he sees the blasting staff in the other hand, and curses himself for a fool.


	2. Match Made By Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WizardsGirl's prompt(s) : Harry Potter/Harry Dresden, HP/HD, smut (continued from Awkward Meeting)

Harry takes a stuttering breath, surprised, and Dresden looks from his blasting staff to Harry as if he's just figured out that he's done something he isn't supposed to have. Dresden magic tingles along Harry's skin, along his spine, like fingers, probing and pinching to find a way in. It isn't pleasant, but – for now – it is not _unpleasant_.

"Oh." It's all Dresden says, but it's enough – more then enough, to show he's realized this is his doing, Harry takes another breath, forcing himself to keep calm. If he moves away, the magic – wild, dancing, spinning about them – will react. He doesn't know in what way, and that is the most dangerous thing of all about a wizard meeting another wizards magic. Some go lifetimes without ever making this sort of mistake, but some – like Dresden – seem to be a puppet to magic's will. Instead of the will that commands magic.

" _Easy_." A warning: it isn't easy, this wizard barely deserves the word _wizard_ , and his magic is a wild and willful thing. Harry hisses under his breath, trying while thinking of it - to get his own magic under his own control and command. It's like trying to use the wrong hand while writing, his magic half paying him, but it isn't all his magic mixing into him. It isn't all his own magic he's commanding. Dresden's standing very still, not even trying to control his magic. He's still, as if he hopes that by pretending he's not there, his magic will go away. Harry really wishes magic was that simple. It presses at Harry's control, begging to play.

Play, to a wizard's magic, means either fuck or fight, and Harry doesn't want to do either with a stranger.

"Control yourself." Harry begs, because Harry can't control his own magic (without a wand) and Dresden's at the same time, Dresden having his staff in hand should at least _try_. Even if he does something it's better then doing nothing. Dresden uses his grip on Harry's hand to pull him in closer. He looks fevered, cheeks pink panting for his breath as if this is a race to be won or lost. He drops his staff, deliberately, smirking. Now there is no hope for a way to control this situation. Harry can't help but tense, wondering if this is a trap.

"Don't take this the wrong way, okay? – but I don't really want to." Dresden nuzzles at his neck and the soft hairs there, Harry digs his nails into flesh, a warning to stop – or else. _Else_ what, Harry closes his eyes so he won't see coming. Doesn't know or care. Dresden's breath on his neck is hot and soothing against his chill skin, his dread and fear; though magic tingles like that breath is a fan to flame.

It melts him, all in one breath, one touch of lips to skin soft and over sensitive: Harry groans, something like a giving in, and something like a giving up.

Magic, like a forest fire, roars up triumphant, binding and melting, it's like dying and giving chance to a new life: here, now, his. Dresden sinks to his knees, pulling Harry atop him, fingers seeking anywhere that's covered by robes. Arms, shoulders, his chest, his waist, all know Dresden's touch, recognizing it as if it's his magic.

The other hand, the one they shook with, fingers flex and relax with the flow of magic. Entangled, tough sensitive, touch starved. A wizard's hands, where they manipulate magic from themselves into a object to give shape to their will with words, is rarely touched, except in meetings, and _never_ with a wizard's staff or wand in hand.

Dresden gives voice to a cry of triumph, finding what he sought, shoving robes away – which magic snatches away. Not just the robes, but every stitch of cloth.

Harry moans, skin on skin, burning and wanting and needing. Dresden's lips on his burn with magic, swallowing his cries, but filling him up, with tongue - following his – _their_ \- magic into him. An urgent hand (the other hand tightens in a grip about his, not letting go for anything – not even this) on his hip sets the pace, as they rock together, needing this, skin slick between them, riding the edge of magic and instinct to where it takes them.

One cries out for the other, and the other answers: or they cry out together, unable to tell one of them from the other.

 _Bonded_ , Harry knows as soon as he shakes away the daze of lust and magic. Melted and mated, their magical cores pound in an echo of a shared heartbeat.


End file.
